


three wishes

by amorekay



Series: in quiet rooms [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/pseuds/amorekay
Summary: Ambrose draws his hand away. “No,” he says, tasting the word, “there’s a better place for this.”He steps back. Rodrigue, half undressed, in disarray, and quiet in his favorite spot, watches him. “Ambrose,” he says, voice hoarse in his throat. And not even from—how nice, already.Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius and Margrave Gautier kick off a return to a relationship of the intimate variety a decade later, under the worst of circumstances. (Or, perhaps the happiest, if Ambrose were the one asked.)
Relationships: Ambrose Rene Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Series: in quiet rooms [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664935
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	three wishes

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the first fade-to-black of [the windmills of your mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162107). Go read for context! Ambrose and Rodrigue start up this affair with very different perspectives on it, while Rodrigue is in the throes of grief (and Ambrose is in the throes of, celebrating.) Communication is missed and crossed because of this, and emotions aren’t being dealt with in the healthiest of ways. Here and in general. 
> 
> Please also note! There is consensual (but under-negotiated and asked for by a very sad man) light breathplay (brief choking) in this fic & some Dom/sub dynamics. It’s all smut. 
> 
> Enjoy?

> _you want three wishes: never bitter, all delicious, one you’re saving for a rainy day if your lover ever takes her love away._

  


This evening is the most pleasant evening Ambrose has had the satisfaction of arranging since he became Margrave. All these past nights with Rodrigue have been pleasant, of course, but _this_ one. Ambrose had known. He had waited, and he had known—Rodrigue had wanted this all along. And here he is, welcoming Ambrose’s touch.

Ambrose watches him, lazily tracing a line down Rodrigue’s throat. Rodrigue swallows, thickly, throat jumping beneath his touch. Eyes locked with Ambrose’s, he places a calloused palm over Ambrose’s hand. And presses down harder. 

“Oh?” Ambrose says. That one’s new. And quite a big ask, it seems, with the way Rodrigue is looking at him, silent save the tight press of his fingers against his. 

The rush of exhilaration is intoxicating. He curves his thumb up to the tender spot beneath the side of Rodrigue’s jaw. The most languid of presses against his pulse have Rodrigue’s fingers relaxing their grip on his. Ambrose draws his hand away. “No,” he says, tasting the word, “there’s a better place for this.” 

He steps back. Rodrigue, half undressed, in disarray, and quiet in his favorite spot, watches him. “Ambrose,” he says, voice hoarse in his throat. And not even from—how nice, already. 

The oversized chair by the mantle, he decides. Rodrigue is easy in his hands as he helps him up and walks them back, the steps of his boots dampened by the thick rug. It’s a long deserved requisition, to settle in this chair and then draw Rodrigue into his lap, his knees pressed in tight around his thighs. He belongs here. Ambrose curls a warm hand around his neck. He belongs to him. 

Rodrigue is a fine pleasure to indulge in this night, his skin still so warm to the touch in the room’s heat as Ambrose drapes the tips of his fingers down between his bare shoulder blades, over the notches in his spine, across the small of his back. A burning cinder snaps in the fireplace. 

He thumbs the top of Rodrigue’s breeches, idly. Rodrigue reaches out and rests a hand on his arm, above where he’s folded back the cuffs of his sleeves. Ambrose pauses. He draws his hands back around to Rodrigue’s stomach and presses his fingers in against the muscles that jump under his touch, coaxing Rodrigue with the press of his fingers until he follows the ask and moves to shift off his knees and stand again. 

With Rodrigue tucked nicely in the bracket of his legs, Ambrose helps him to undress, undoing Rodrigue’s breeches easily and drawing them and his smallclothes down until Rodrigue steps out of them. He runs a hand down Rodrigue’s arm, seeking the dip of his wrist to press his fingers against. The beat of his pulse is present and true beneath Ambrose’s fingers as he holds his arm away from his side to look at him. 

“Have you often thought of this? I remember it well. I remember you—” he looks at Rodrigue, bare before him, all these familiar parts of him, the line of his throat, his chest, the quickening rise and fall of his breath, his hips, his cock already so attentive, all for Ambrose, “—so well.”

Rodrigue’s wrist turns beneath his hold. His fingers curl around the back of Ambrose’s hand. For a moment, he’s silent. “I remember,” he says. 

Ambrose tugs at his wrist, drawing him back to him. Rodrigue settles easily in his lap, knees tucked in around him again, his free hand helping him balance against the arm of the chair. Ambrose rests his hand low on his waist, thumb grazing over the line of his hip bone. All of this—so familiar. 

Rodrigue shifting forward, seeking friction, is also familiar. “So eager already?” Ambrose asks, drawing Rodrigue’s wrist still caught in his grasp down to his lap and prompting Rodrigue to curl fingers around himself, Ambrose’s fingers wrapped around his, palm pressed warm to the back of his hand. He leads him through the slowest of strokes. “We wouldn’t want to get too ahead of ourselves.”

“We already are.” Rodrigue’s breath hitches on an exhale, his words low but clear. Ambrose stills the caress of his thumb against the pale skin of Rodrigue’s hip. He’s responding so nicely to the shift and sway of their joined hands, but something in the taste of those words—Ambrose looks up. 

“Are we?” he asks, light and easy. He lifts his hand from Rodrigue’s hip and reaches up to touch his cheek, curving his fingers until he can press thumb and finger in against the hinges of his jaw and watch Rodrigue swallow in response, mouth parting slightly. 

He smiles. “Would you care to provide some… assistance?” He drops his hand away from Rodrigue’s jaw and taps two fingers lightly against his mouth, watching the way his lips part further in response, the way his expression is shifting now. It’s so easy a slide to press his fingers into the heat of his mouth, wet and warm. Rodrigue swallows again. Ambrose can feel it in the way his tongue presses against his fingers. 

“What a treat you are, darling,” he murmurs. Between their hands, Rodrigue’s cock twitches, his face flushing warmer, and, “Ah,” Ambrose adds, amused, “we don’t want _you_ getting too ahead of us now, do we?”

With his fingers still settled in Rodrigue’s mouth, Ambrose pauses to draw Rodrigue’s hand away from himself and prompts him to grasp the arm of the chair again. “There,” he says. It’s a suitable rearrangement. And Rodrigue looks so pleasant like this. “No distraction from the task at hand. Would you like to help us get ready, Rodrigue? For the next event?”

Rodrigue gratifies the request. He sucks so nicely on Ambrose’s fingers. For a long moment the room is quiet, save for the crackle of the fireplace. It’s interrupted by the brief, satisfying pop as Ambrose pulls his fingers free. 

His gaze follows the gleam left on Rodrigue’s skin in his wake as he runs those damp fingers down Rodrigue’s chin, neck, chest. It draws a full shiver from Rodrigue, and Ambrose cups his face again, running his thumb over his lip. He kisses him. Rodrigue responds, slow and so receptive, following his lead. Ambrose smiles. 

“Perhaps,” he says, drawing back. “Something kinder would do. It has, after all, been a while. We wouldn’t want to make undue demands of your… capacities. Though, you always did enjoy the nudge of a bruise. Being—” he looks to Rodrigue’s neck, “pressed upon.” 

Rodrigue is so quiet now. But he shudders at Ambrose’s words, and the flush darkens down his chest. At his cock. 

It’s not a far reach to the end table next to them. All of Rodrigue, warm and present and so obvious in his desire, presses flush against Ambrose as he leans forward, arm wrapped around Rodrigue, seeking to fetch that fortunate purchase from the drawer. It’s there exactly as he placed it, the glass making it easy to distinguish by touch alone as he plucks the bottle from its sequestered spot and holds it up. 

“Here we are! More to the taste of _this_ evening,” Ambrose smiles, feeling the pull of it at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t you enjoy this part best, darling?” 

He leaves the bottle of oil on the end table and runs his hand from Rodrigue’s back to his thigh. Rodrigue exhales quietly and clutches at the arms of the chair as Ambrose curls fingers around the back of his thighs, tilting him up and forward on his knees. It’s the swiftest of tasks to retrieve the bottle and oil his fingers, the anticipation curling in his chest as he replaces the stopper and sets the bottle aside. How long it’s been! 

With his idle hand, he reaches to tuck loose strands of hair behind Rodrigue’s ear, watching his face as Ambrose trails seeking fingers down from the notches of his spine. He touches lightly at his rim in pleasant warning, and then slowly slips a finger inside of him. Rodrigue shivers, his mouth parting. Ambrose runs fingers through his hair, and smiles.

“It seems you remember this habit well too, dearest, you take me so very nicely.”

Rodrigue tucks his forehead against Ambrose’s shoulder in lieu of response and lifts his hips, rocking back against him. More, then. Already! How hungry he was. Ambrose indulges him, pressing in another finger slick with oil, watching Rodrigue tense and relax.

It brings to mind other, fondly remembered occasions. “We have more than an afternoon now, stolen from beneath others’ watches. Everywhere here is ours to enjoy.” He strokes with his fingers, slow and not particularly seeking, simply a reminder that he’s there. “So much time!” 

“Ambrose,” Rodrigue murmurs, low and tired, reaching a hand up from his grip on the chair to press gently against Ambrose’s chest. He tucks his head further into his shoulder and exhales. Ambrose draws his fingers out and then presses them back in, feeling the way Rodrigue responds. He presses deeper.

Rodrigue jolts and moans something incoherent. Ah. There it is. Ambrose cards his hand down through his hair and draws it away from the nape of his neck, then tucks his thumb in lightly against the quickening beat of Rodrigue’s pulse. “Rodrigue,” he says, very warmly. “Would you care to illuminate what you’re seeking?” 

Rodrigue’s hand falls from his chest down to his lap, resting over him, the message obvious. “So soon? I must admit, I’m a little disappointed.” Ambrose strokes his thumb down the curve of his neck. “Here I thought we might savor the moment longer.” 

He pauses, considering, and runs a third finger lightly around Rodrigue’s rim. “You asked before, darling, to be fucked. But you asked,” he tips his thumb against his neck, “for a different delicacy as well, didn’t you?”

“Ambrose,” Rodrigue starts, then stops. His voice is hoarse. “Please, I just…”

Ambrose frowns. So polite. He drops his hand away from Rodrigue’s neck. “Of course,” he says. “Would you care to do the honors?”

Rodrigue’s long, graceful fingers go working at the buttons of his trousers. Ambrose presses inside him, angled cleverly, and watches with interest as Rodrigue’s fingertips graze uselessly over his buttons, his concentration lost. It’s always been a pleasure to watch Rodrigue, distracted, still so intent on this task. 

As each button pops loose he rewards him with another pause, and when Rodrigue’s hand wraps around his cock, palm calloused and warm and so once familiar, he strokes deep and intentional inside him to feel Rodrigue’s fingers flutter as he moans. 

“Ambrose,” he calls again, and Ambrose shifts and draws his fingers out, settling his hand on the jut of Rodrigue’s narrow hip and reaching for the glass bottle on the end table. He frees the stopper with a quick twist and sets it aside. It settles with a weighty thud on the wood of the table. The finality of it delights him. 

Rodrigue, here, asking for all this—!

He tips the bottle and pours oil over himself, and Rodrigue’s fingers move to spread it generously. Ambrose breathes in. He sets the bottle down. 

Rodrigue rises on his knees, thighs shaking slightly, and shifts forward and starts to sink down on his cock. Ambrose watches his face. He’s open mouthed, panting, the corner of his lip glistening with spit, and Ambrose reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb. “You always did take me so well,” he murmurs. 

Rodrigue reaches up and grabs his hand. His fingers curl tightly around Ambrose’s palm as he continues to sink down on him, his thighs—and all of him—warm and wrapped tight around Ambrose. Ambrose pauses, curious, his other hand still dancing lightly over Rodrigue’s hip. 

Rodrigue draws his hand down from his face to his neck. 

“Oh, Rodrigue,” Ambrose murmurs, rolling his hips up slightly to meet him, “all the fun at once?”

“Ambrose, fuck me,” Rodrigue asks, so very direct—and so, with great pleasure, Ambrose does, cataloguing all the smallest of sounds he draws out of Rodrigue. And when Rodrigue’s hand presses down against his and falls away, Ambrose knows exactly what he’s asking for. 

He seeks the flutter of his pulse at its most vulnerable point, here beneath the curve of his jaw, and presses in. 

He watches him close his eyes, watches him go limp and helpless, watches his throat move, watches as he finally loses his breath, held entirely in the thumb and palm of Ambrose’s tender, seeking hand. A moment to be caught and savored, drawn out like the first sip of a finely aged wine, all the notes separating in perfect pitch. Rodrigue’s skin is so warm. His eyelids flutter.

Ambrose loosens his grip and offers breath back to Rodrigue. 

He holds on to the rest of him, rocking his hips up and into him, Rodrigue gasping against him, dipping forward and trembling, his mouth wet and warm pressed against Ambrose’s shoulder. Ambrose curls a cleverly poised hand around him and draws the rest of his breath away before it’s been fully returned, as Rodrigue shudders, full-bodied and delicious, and slips over the edge.

Ambrose follows soon after, the insistent press of heat as Rodrigue tenses through the aftershocks finally conquering his attention. He loses himself to the release. Even now, he finds, as he comes back to himself, it remains the part least to his taste. 

There is no fun in it, not the way there is watching Rodrigue. He runs an unsteadied hand through Rodrigue’s damp, tangled hair, places his palm against his throat to feel his rabbiting pulse and then draws his fingers up his chin, tilting his face up, and kisses him. 

Rodrigue clumsily kisses back, so drowsy and sedate already, and Ambrose laughs, quite pleased. He drops his hands to his hips and lifts and shifts Rodrigue in his lap, settling him against him. Rodrigue sighs, a long and untenable thing, and then breathes easy. 

Ambrose strokes his hair. 

“You were prepared,” Rodrigue comments. He’s still in the armchair where Ambrose left him, watching him with his cheek propped up by one hand. 

Ambrose pauses in pulling on the clean set of trousers. “It would be rather unfortunate to be caught unawares,” he says, airily. “Besides, my friend, we both knew where this was leading.” 

“Still,” Rodrigue comments. He sounds drowsy still, his words unfurling slowly in a way only Ambrose, perhaps, has heard. Ambrose smiles. “I suppose I never saw this part of the process.”

“Hm?” Ambrose questions. He deftly finishes buttoning and moves on to his boots, sitting down on the chaise to pull them back on. 

Rodrigue doesn’t reply. When Ambrose looks up, he’s still watching him, an inscrutable look on his face. Ambrose finishes doing up his boots by feel, watching Rodrigue back, gaze wandering down from his face to the jut of his collarbone to those long stretches of bare skin, Rodrigue naked and settled so nicely here in Ambrose’s study. It seems a shame to end this. 

But Rodrigue must be dressed again, put back together for everyone else to see, the best of him hidden away only for them. Perhaps, there is something Ambrose can give him to keep—a reminder, of this. He stands up and crosses over to Rodrigue. 

“Now dearest, did we wear you out?” He holds out a hand and Rodrigue meets it, and he pulls him to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> [head in hands] the ambrigue smut generating got to me. this isn’t even technically my part of the timeline! (that’s [wine red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802435/chapters/52026232), which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802435/chapters/52026232)!) you can also find out more about this universe, aka the JCU, in this [twitter moment](https://twitter.com/i/events/1195471121732243456?s=13), which includes a whole lot of goodies. 
> 
> i’m also at twitter at [@amorekays](https://twitter.com/amorekays) and this fic can be retweeted [here](https://twitter.com/amorekays/status/1240652900080082944)!


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